


That Old Black Magic

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Admission of Past Crimes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Moral Dilemmas, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 14:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18100388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Neal is accidentally dosed with an unknown substance, and the result could be catastrophic. Peter does what Peter does—he comes to the rescue, but will he be able to ultimately save his CI so that he can avoid returning to prison?





	That Old Black Magic

_“That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that you weave so well.”_

The lyrics to that Big Band Era song from the 1940s kept replaying over and over in Neal’s head. It was driving him crazy and it was all Mozzie’s fault. The weird little bald man probably had been responsible for Neal’s current problem, and the suffering young con man was tempted to wreak havoc on his partner in crime. Unfortunately, Neal still needed Mozzie’s assistance to fix this debacle, so his cohort would get to live another day. It had all started two weeks ago when Neal had come home to his loft to find Mozzie reclining on his couch deeply engrossed in some esoteric reading material.

“What’s got you so raptly absorbed,” Neal asked his friend.

Mozzie looked up and his myopic eyes seemed to glow behind his glasses. “I was inspecting an abandoned storage locker in the city after I won the bid to claim its contents, and I found a treasure trove of old books. None of them are very valuable, but this one is of particular interest to me. It’s a book about the dark arts and black magic, and someone actually wrote some recipes for extra potions and spells in the back.”

Neal looked skeptical. “Does it say what those spells actually do?”

“No, not definitively,” Mozzie replied. “In the printed part of the book, there are specific instructions for when to employ a particular spell or how to concoct a potion. But the extra ones written in longhand aren’t very specific. In fact, some of the amounts and proportions of the ingredients have been crossed out and edited. Maybe they were simply trial and error attempts by an aspiring wizard.”

Neal grimaced. “Surely you don’t believe in all that malarkey, Moz. People who claim to be fortune tellers or Wiccans in covens are all con artists running their games on the gullible. Any magic that might happen is all mind over matter on the part of the believer. They want something very badly so they make it happen themselves.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge, mon frère,” Mozzie admonished. “There is a lot of strange stuff in this vast universe of ours that has yet to be understood.”

“Well,” Neal snorted, “don’t expect me to become a convert and a follower of the occult anytime soon.”

Nonetheless, in the succeeding days, Mozzie could be found in the kitchen area of Neal’s loft hunched over a simmering pot on the stove concocting a broth of some sort. Neal didn’t even try to identify some of the weird-looking ingredients that went into the brews. Sometimes, there was a lull in the experimentation process because Mozzie claimed that he had to wait for the next full moon or some other astrological phenomenon. It all seemed harmless enough to Neal’s untrained eye, and he was very tolerant of the invasion of his personal space—that is until one evening when he was almost overcome by a nauseating, acrid stench as he opened his door. He was immediately assailed by a thick, suffocating haze in the room, and Mozzie actually had a respirator covering his face as tendrils of purple smoke rose from a large soup pot.

Neal immediately started to gag and cough, and he quickly slapped a hand over his nose and mouth. “What the hell, Moz?” he called out as he made his way to the outdoor patio and fresh, cleansing air.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mozzie apologized profusely when he joined Neal and pulled his rebreather off. “I followed the recipe exactly and I don’t know what went wrong to cause that horribly noxious result.”

“Well, from now on, please relocate your chemistry lab to one of your safe houses where you can set up your witch’s caldron on a Bunsen burner away from people who really want to avoid asphyxiation!” Neal said firmly.

“Right, sure, I’ll do that,” Mozzie promised.

Mozzie was a man of his word and Neal was loathe to admit that he missed the strange little man’s company. Neal’s Monday through Friday days were filled with other interesting people, but the nights in his loft were solitary and quiet. Saturdays and Sundays were extremely lonely. The young con man was a people person and craved attention and interaction with other human beings, so sometimes he found himself pestering his handler over a weekend. Peter seemed perplexed by the attention at first, but then seemed to take it in stride. One Saturday evening, Neal was content to sit on the Burke’s couch beside his handler in front of the television. Peter was channel surfing and decided to stop on a documentary about old forensic file cases from the past.

“Don’t you ever get enough of that stuff?” Neal asked curiously.

“I’m simply taking a busman’s holiday,” Peter retorted, no doubt referring to a term for someone who goes on vacation and does the very same thing as when he is on the job.

“Whatever,” Neal snarked.

Eventually, Neal actually found himself getting interested in the content which chronicled various illegal heists from years gone by. The criminals were usually apprehended by the authorities because they had been careless and stupid, but that was only after the cops sometimes spent days trying to figure out how the crimes had been done.

“They really could have gotten away with it if they had been a bit more creative and patient,” Neal scoffed at one point as two thieves trying to smuggle paintings out of a museum in Virginia were caught, red-handed, in the parking lot. “Passing themselves off as art restorers was so ridiculously pedestrian.”

“So, how would you have done it, Neal?” Peter asked, never expecting even a hypothetical answer.

Much to his surprise, the con man and thief was very accommodating. “I would have cloned a security guard’s access pass and entered the building while he was on a break. Then I would have cut the paintings out of their frames and hidden them behind other exhibits. I’d wait a few weeks for the heat to die down, and then I’d return as part of a cleaning crew, retrieve my booty, and tuck it away inside my cart before I left for the day at quitting time. No muss, no fuss—clean and simple.”

“Do you really think that would have worked?” Peter asked skeptically.

“Of course,” Neal replied with a decisive nod of his head. “That’s exactly how I stole that Rembrandt from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, and it worked like a charm.”

Suddenly, Neal couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth, and he stymied the urge to clamp a hand over his traitorous lips. What the hell had just happened? He never had any intention of confessing to a crime, not even to Peter. The FBI man was also astounded and his eyes were wide in surprise.

“Did you just actually confess to a crime?” the astonished man asked in stupefaction.

“Well, somebody did, but maybe it wasn’t really me,” Neal said weakly.

“Neal, what’s your agenda here?” Peter asked suspiciously. “You never confess to anything. What’s behind this sudden impulse to unburden your soul?”

Neal’s brain was in overdrive trying to spin this lapse in judgment. “Perhaps I just wanted to brag a little bit, Peter. I have so little joy in my life, maybe I was simply trying to get a bit of respect. Besides, the statute of limitations is three years for art theft, and we’re way past that now, not to mention that it occurred in a foreign country far from the FBI’s purview.”

“Uh huh,” Peter murmured, not completely sold on Neal’s glib explanation. “Maybe the Italians would have a different slant on it.”

“And maybe I should get going back home,” Neal said hurriedly as he stood up. He could feel Peter’s suspicious eyes boring holes in his back as he fled through the door.

During the cab ride home, Neal went over everything that had happened in the Burke house, and he couldn’t understand what had been the impetus behind him singing like a canary. It was an anomaly in his world, and one that he couldn’t let occur again. Criminals were supposed to be into self-preservation, not self-flagellation!

Unfortunately, it did happen again like a case of déjà vu. Neal was working an art extortion case with Peter. A masterpiece had been grabbed from a mansion on the Upper East Side and the burglar was holding it for ransom. If he didn’t get paid by the owners, the under-insured piece would disappear into the ether.

“Messy, messy,” Neal said in disgust. “If the victim of the theft doesn’t play ball, the thief will never be able to off-load that hot item to any fence, no matter how bold and foolish the broker may be. The doofus is going to be stuck with it forever, and he’ll never see a dime for all his trouble. Now, when I stole those paintings from the Guggenheim and the MoMA, I already had a number of eager buyers standing in line so I didn’t have to rely on whether or not a ransom was paid.”

Peter’s head shot up and he stared at Neal menacingly. “Neal, this is crazy. Your ego is already colossal, so I’m not buying that you need more affirmation and reassurance that you’re an extraordinary thief. Are you trying to test me? Do you really want to find out if I’d send you back to prison? If that’s the case, you’re playing with fire, kiddo.”

“I do not, under any circumstances, wish to return to prison, Peter,” Neal assured his handler uneasily. “But maybe I really should go home now because suddenly I’m not feeling like myself. Maybe I have a touch of the flu.”

“Right, that’s probably for the best,” Peter said uncertainly, not sure how to interpret Neal’s obviously alarmed response. This was very strange and baffling behavior, and Peter was determined to get to the bottom of it. If Neal was somehow trying to con him, there would be hell to pay.

~~~~~~~~~~

A frazzled Neal let himself into the Riverside Drive house just before lunch and found himself coming face to face with June. She was sashaying around the large, open foyer in a garnet-colored dress with ruffles across the bodice and a garish sequined applique on one hip. Her personal shopper was standing off to the side with a stack of other haute couture cocktail dresses over her arm.

“Well, hello, Neal,” June said warmly. “You’re home early. Annette has brought some frocks for me to try on, and I’m trying to decide which one to choose for the upcoming symphony gala. What do you think of this one?”

Neal cocked his head and said the first thing that formed in his mind. “Don’t get that one, June. It makes you look fat.”

Once the words were out, an embarrassed con man felt a hot, flush start to make its ascent up the back of his neck. Damn it, apparently his usual suave diplomacy and tact had gone the way of the dodo bird. Even though the dress in question did make his landlady look dumpy, Neal knew he never should have said that out loud.

June looked nonplussed for a second, then smiled regally. “Thank you, Darling, for being honest. I value your opinion very highly, so this little creation is a definite thumbs down.”

“Sorry, June,” Neal apologized. “I think I’m a bit of a buzzkill right now because I’m not feeling like myself. I’m sure whatever you pick out will just enhance your natural beauty. So, I’ll leave you to it,” he said over his shoulder as he jogged up the stairs to safe isolation. He threw himself on the couch and didn’t know if he should take an aspirin or a drink to cure what ailed him. Eventually, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to do both. Then he called Mozzie because he suspected that this phenomenon of blurting out the truth was somehow connected to the little man’s spells and potions.

“Moz, remember when you had that little mishap with your science fair project that practically turned my loft into a biohazard?” Neal asked tentatively.

“Yes, I do recall that little glitch,” Mozzie replied slowly.

“Well, I think I may have been dosed by something in the mixture because I’ve recently been exhibiting some very disturbing side effects,” Neal admitted.

“Do you have hives or a rash? Has your throat started to swell?” Mozzie wanted to know. “I have an epi-pen. Even though its expiration date is long past, it should work a little bit to keep you from dying,” he said confidently.

“No, it’s not an allergic reaction. It’s actually much worse than that,” Neal said miserably. “I believe whatever was in your smelly brew has been making me blurt out the truth to anyone who will listen. I can’t seem to stop it from happening.”

“Wow, that is disturbing,” Mozzie mumbled. “I’m on my way and I’ll bring the black magic recipe book. Maybe we can find something within the pages to undo the spell.”

“It’s not a spell, Moz. I think it’s some kind of weird molecular reaction in my brain caused by that purple mist that I inhaled, and you have to fix this— _like right now!”_ Neal pleaded. “My future freedom depends on it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter hadn’t been able to relax since his CI’s swift exit. He couldn’t concentrate on the files in front of him, and finally admitted that staying in the office wouldn’t be a very productive use of his time. He decided to pack it in after lunch and headed over to see Neal after checking his tracking data to make sure the con man had, indeed, gone home. Maybe the guy really was sick. Peter knocked once on the loft door before pushing it open to enter. He spied Neal lying outstretched on the bed with a cloth folded over his eyes. Meanwhile, Mozzie was perched on a nearby chair with his nose in a book.

“How are you feeling, Neal?” Peter asked solicitously.

Mozzie was quick to answer for his friend. “Neal is very ill and quite contagious, so you may want to keep your distance, Suit.”

“It doesn’t seem as if you’re worried about catching anything,” Peter replied sharply.

“That’s because I’m immune to the disease,” the little bald man simpered as he went to stand in front of the FBI agent in an effort to block his way.

Peter snorted and pushed past the scrawny little sentry to perch beside Neal on the mattress. He lifted a corner of the damp cloth and peered into one of the con man’s blue eyes. “What’s the problem, Typhoid Mary?” he asked softly.

“If you want me to answer that, Peter, please put your FBI badge on the night table and grant me immunity from whatever comes out of my mouth,” Neal answered miserably.

“That bad, huh?” Peter said worriedly.

“Yeah, pretty bad,” Neal agreed.

“Well, maybe I need to hear what you have to say before I do anything drastic,” Peter replied in a level tone.

Neal actually shuddered. “I guess, in a nutshell, I seem to have developed an annoying affliction that forces me to be honest and tell the truth. It’s involuntary, I assure you, and it’s making me a miserable wreck,” he sighed dramatically. “It’s like aliens have taken over my body and I’m not me anymore. Maybe I’m possessed and the real Neal Caffrey is residing on some other ethereal plane clucking his tongue and looking sad and disappointed.”

“What do you think caused this bizarre phenomenon, Buddy?” Peter asked almost tenderly.

“I’m not sure, but Moz is trying to figure it out,” the young man replied as he pulled the cloth back over his eyes. “Now, if you like me even a little bit, you’ll leave, Peter, before I implicate myself in every crime that I’ve ever committed. I really don’t want to go back in the slammer.”

“And I don’t want to put you there,” Peter reassured him. “Maybe we should use that cloth as a gag while I have a heart-to-heart with your little cohort in crime,” he teased as he turned to Neal’s friend.

“What’s your take on this strange disease,” Peter asked curiously as he deftly removed the book Mozzie had been reading from the coffee table. He frowned when he read the title, _A Beginner Primer for Spells, Incantations, and Potions._

“Seriously?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Do not mock, Suit,” Mozzie countered “Hypothetically, Neal may have accidently inhaled the steam from a concoction gone awry. Obviously, some of the recipes are potent although their efficacy and side effects could be called into question. I’ve concluded that has to be the culprit in this case.”

Peter didn’t agree. “I think you’re the culprit in this little drama, Mozzie, because whatever you brewed seems to have been toxic to Neal. I could charge you with placing a person in danger of grievous harm because of your cockamamie actions.”

“Geez, Suit, it wasn’t as if I was cooking crystal meth in here,” Mozzie objected. “Every ingredient I used was purely herbal and homeopathic. There wasn’t a drop of any harmful chemicals in the mixture.”

“Is the recipe you used in that book?” Peter demanded to know.

“Yeah, it’s the last one in the back, but I may have experimented a bit and added a few extra ingredients from the organic green grocer’s cart down the street.”

Peter sighed in frustration and walked over to the bed. “C’mon, Neal, I’m taking you to a doctor to have some blood drawn, and after we get a toxicology report and know what we’re dealing with in this scenario, we can only hope there is an antidote. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but please keep your mouth shut, if possible. I don’t want to know anything more about your past life of crime.”

“Ya know, I think I love you, Peter,” Neal said dreamily, and Peter fervently hoped it was an off-handed grateful comment and not the drugs talking.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I didn’t mean to poison you, Neal. It wasn’t intentional,” Mozzie said meekly as they sat, side by side, on a table in a physician’s office awaiting the lab results while Peter paced.

“I know you didn’t, Moz,” Neal said fondly.

Finally, the door opened and an older gentleman in a white lab coat came in with a report in his hand. “Okay, Mr. Caffrey, we seem to have narrowed down your diagnosis. We analyzed your blood and came to a conclusion as to what is causing your symptoms. Using the information provided by your scientist friend, we carefully listed all of the seemingly harmless carbon-based ingredients that he used in his experiment, at least the ones he could remember. I must stress a very important point at this juncture. Just because something occurs naturally in nature doesn’t always make it a benign substance. Plants like monkshood, columbine, hellebore and a plethora of others are poisonous to humans. Other non-poisonous vegetation may contain alkaloids in their leaves, stems, or roots which can also be life threatening if ingested in concentrated amounts or if they become mixed with other plant phytonutrients. Sometimes two unrelated ingredients can act synergistically causing a potentiation of their action. In other words, one can enhance the effects of the other and make it stronger and quite dangerous. Are you with me so far?”

Three heads bobbed in unison. “Well, we have isolated a certain chemical in your blood, Mr. Caffrey. Apparently, your friend had somehow managed to organically synthesize an ester that seems to mimic something called 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, a potent psychoactive drug commonly referred to as truth serum. It was apparently a homeopathic accident of the wrong plants and herbs getting together and going amok. To my knowledge, the efficacy and reliability of 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate have not been documented in any medical or pharmaceutical journals, but the KGB in Russia has been using it for years during their interrogations. I personally don’t believe anything a person says under the influence of this drug would hold up to scrutiny on any official level in this country.”

“Is there an antidote?” Neal asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately, no,” the doctor answered. “However, its half-life is approximately three to four weeks, so you’ll just have to hang on until it passes out of your system. You said that you thought you were dosed approximately two weeks ago, so you’re almost home free. In the meantime, you may want to avoid people that you don’t wish to offend if you had to tell them an unsolicited truth they didn’t wish to hear.”

~~~~~~~~

The ride back home to Neal’s loft was a quiet one. Peter didn’t dare ask any questions so that Neal didn’t have to provide any answers. The three men trooped up to Neal’s loft and Mozzie made a beeline for the Merlot while a nervous young man sat down in a frustrated heap on the couch.

“Listen, Neal,” Peter began in earnest, “I want you to stay quarantined in your loft. I’ll tell Hughes you’ve got some exotic strain of influenza and are quite contagious. I’ll check on you regularly to see how you’re faring, and when we think it’s safe, you can come back to work.”

“Maybe in a week, I’ll try telling you a little white lie to see if I’m recuperating and on the mend,” Neal said lackadaisically.  

Peter looked at Neal with narrowed eyes. “I don’t ever want you to tell me _any_ lies, Buddy.”

“I never have, Peter,” Neal replied softly. “You know that’s the truth because right now that’s all I’m capable of.”

“Yeah, well lets keep it that way even when the pharmaceutical ‘black magic’ concoction wears off. Deal?”

“Deal!” Neal replied as they bumped fists.

Peter was suddenly upbeat as he rose from his chair. “Well, Mozzie and I are going to let you get some rest. We have business to attend to at the moment. Your little friend and I are going to my place for a ritual book burning!”


End file.
